“Of course they are,” she replied quickly.  “What else could they be?  Naturally Mr. Punch would have fairies all round him.  He loves us.  You have no idea how much we have in common.”

I didn’t reply at once.  I was engaged in staring at the familiar design.

“They haven’t any wings,” I said, still rather doubtfully, “except this one at the bottom.”

But the Fairy Queen was very decided indeed.  “All fairies don’t have wings,” she said; “and with regard to that particular one at the bottom,” she glanced a little superciliously at the buxom lady with the trumpet, “as a matter of fact, she isn’t a fairy at all.  I don’t quite know what she is, an angel perhaps, but not a fairy, certainly not a fairy.  But the others are, of course.”  She glanced at me a little defiantly with her bright eyes.  “Surely, my dear, I ought to know a fairy when I see one.  At the time when these were done they were perfectly all right; they only want bringing up to date, like the pictures inside, that’s all.  Now you will see whether you can do anything, won’t you?”

It was difficult to refuse, but I didn’t feel very hopeful.

“I’ll try,” I said.  “I’ll write to the Editor; but I’m afraid it’s not very likely that he will do anything in the matter.  You see the cover’s been like that for years and years.  Almost ever since Punch began.  It’s—­well, it’s part of the Punch tradition.  We all love it.  Nobody would like to see it altered; it wouldn’t seem the same thing.”

The Fairy Queen was busy with her cloak and didn’t pay much attention to what I was saying,

“Won’t you stay a little longer and have some tea or something?” I begged.

She shook her head.

“A chocolate?”

She smiled.  “I can’t resist a chocolate,” she said.  She took a very little one and nibbled at it daintily, flitting about the room meanwhile and chattering away in the friendliest fashion in her tiny high voice.

“I must go,” she said at last.  “I have enjoyed it so much.  May I come again some day?  I should love to come again."...

I went out with her into the little lobby and down the stairs, and stood at the hall door to watch her go.

“Now don’t forget,” were her last words as she floated out into the night.  “Tell him, tell him exactly what we really look like.”

“I can’t,” I called after her desperately; “I can’t.”

But she had already disappeared in the soft haze.  I went slowly up the stairs and back to my quiet room and the dying fire.

“I can’t,” I said again.  “I only wish I could.”

R. F.

* * * * *

    “Bandsmen Wanted for Municipal Band.  Solo Cornet and others.  Work
    found for bricklayer, carpenter, painter and paperhanger.”—­Daily
    Paper.

With whose assistance we may expect some jazzling effects.